


Roses

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [5]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bickering, Established Relationship, Flowers, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Marijuana, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking, Swearing, Trouble In Paradise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: Bobby is feeling lonely, and says something he shouldn't have.Part of my X-Men Universe, a sequel of sorts to So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings.
Relationships: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake
Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614586
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yes hello I posted this earlier today as a chapter in my Fragments series, but decided to do it standalone because I want people to actually read it.
> 
> Hoping to start on a reworked version of my bigger X-Men project in the coming days, so maybe keep an eye out for that but also don't hold your breath lol.
> 
> For those of you not in the know, Kyle is my version of Quicksilver. To cut a long story short, he's in love with Colossus, who does not love him back just yet. Also, he and Warren have by the point of this story had a short fling together, which has not gone anywhere really.

John knows something is up before he even opens his bedroom door.

There is an uneasiness in the air, some distant metallic taste in the back of his mouth, swimming in the saliva just beyond his tongue. He halts in front of the dark wood, eyes fixed on the swirling patterns in the grain, hand poised over the handle. He swallows once, and enters. Bobby looks up as he comes in, the ghost of a smile flashing across his face, gone in an instant, replaced by something a little deeper, a little sadder. John feels something wash at the back of his throat, his chest suddenly full of liquid, unstable. There is nothing physically wrong with him, just the floating sensation of anxiety, a momentary swell behind his lungs. He swallows again — a sticky, uneasy movement — stepping around the bed to dump his armful of mid-term papers onto his desk by the window. The floorboards creak beneath him as he passes Bobby, their pained groans the only sound in the room. Bobby won't look at him, shoulders hunched, eyes down at his socked feet, fingers twisting around one another. 

"Are you okay, Bobby?"

There is a moment of nothing while Bobby gathers himself. Silence, save for a light sniffling that John could swear he had imagined. When Bobby speaks it's in a voice carefully measured, some unspoken emotion wavering behind each word, threatening to creep out and spill forth into the silence between them.

"I haven't seen you in a while."

John's brow furrows. He shifts his weight across his feet, suddenly aware that he is still in his shoes. He kicks them off, shunting them to the bedside to be put on in the morning. He speaks easily, carefully nonchalant in an attempt to calm whatever tide Bobby holds back behind his words.

"You saw me at breakfast, buddy."

Bobby doesn't laugh. John's heart wrenches around itself. He doesn't want this to happen.

"You know what I meant."

Often, John finds himself struck by how light Bobby's tone always is, how his words chime in the air, melodic. It's almost childish, the way Bobby speaks, the way he laughs. It makes John's heart flutter, makes the centre of his brain fuzzy, full of static. There's no melody in Bobby's voice now. His tone is flat, lacks inflection. He speaks with purpose. They're barrelling towards some conclusion which John is distantly aware of. He can feel the argument in the air, a future echo of something yet to happen. One of his ears stuffs up, a shrill ringing piercing through his mind as he awaits what comes next. He reaches for Bobby across the bed, lays a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he thinks they might be able to avoid this. And then Bobby shrugs his hand away, stands, turns to face him. His face is tight, lips pulled taut into a thin line, his features rendered gaunt by whatever simmers just underneath his skin. John is struck in that moment by the realization that he has never seen Bobby truly angry more than once. This is the Bobby that sat doubled over in his bed, heaving breaths down the phone as his and John's first weekend together was cut short by yet another emergency. This is the Bobby now standing on two feet in anger, one hand clenched into a fist at his side.

John extends an olive branch. He can feel tears behind his eyes, his voice swimming in them.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've been busy, with the teaching, with everything."

And it's true. He has been busy. Teaching at the Xavier School is, in more ways than one, a full time gig. He spends five days a week teaching classes from nine until noon, ranging from the very basics of mathematics for the younger students, to advanced theoretical physics for the older ones. The latter involves a mountain of personal research, just to keep up with his own coursework, which eats away at even more of his time. Then, in the afternoons, he goes through mutant ability training with his assigned group of kids — six in total, whose powers all involve a certain degree of involuntary manifestation. It is John's job to work through this with them, to get them to the point where they are in full control of their powers, and themselves. It's tough going, but it's rewarding all the same.

It leaves him exhausted by the end of the day, however. He is a ghost in the mansion corridors, wandering on leaden feet from the kitchen to the stairs to his room. He and Bobby share time together — it isn't as though he never sees him. Yet, he knows it's been a while since they were intimate, since they had a night to themselves where John didn't fall asleep after fifteen minutes, still in his clothes. He feels himself overcome with a nauseous wave of guilt. His heart swells, drops to his stomach where it sits and pulses. His mouth grows dry, the back of his neck gains a sheen of sweat. He waits for Bobby.

"There's always something, John. I feel like I never see you."

There's something accusatory in his tone that rankles John, bristles against him like a hive, something red and raw and angry. His heart rises again, lifting into his throat. He feels his blood rush, feels his vision narrow in focus. He stands a little straighter, and breathes. The words leave him before he can think better of it, regret spreading diffuse across his face.

"Oh? And what about the missions Bobby? You were gone for three weeks in July. I didn't hear from you for fifteen days. Two weeks not knowing if you were dead or alive! I didn't say anything then, did I?"

Bobby reels back from him. He is surprised that John would throw that at him. Bobby knows John can't stand the missions, that the inherent danger leaves him sick with worry until Bobby comes home again. They don't speak about it ever. It just hangs in the air between them, dangling over their heads, ready to fall.

"That's different and you know it."

"How, Bobby?" he asks, settling into the argument, arms folded across his chest. This is familiar territory now, the snarl and bite of anger. "How is it different? They're both our jobs. We're adults, and adults don't always get to spend every waking moment with each other!"

Bobby jabs a finger into his chest, the muscles in his forearm bulging under the skin. Part of John thrills at the outburst. Part of him wants to claw at Bobby, take him into his arms, and kiss the anger from his face. He remains still.

"I don't need to spend every waking moment with you, but a few of them might be nice!" His voice is growing louder, his face redder. A tear streaks down his face, dripping onto the floor. He doesn't swipe at it.

"If this isn't working for you anymore, then just tell me, Bobby."

John's voice is low, threatening, his warning implicit.

"Is that what you want?" he practically spits, poison in his mouth. He breathes before continuing, and John can sense the words before he says them, can see it written in Bobby's skin, in the writhing of his neck, in the shout that goes unvoiced in his chest. He silently prays that Bobby won't say it, won't do this to them both. It's too late. "I know how this goes. There's someone else. That's why you're pulling away from me. Tell me I'm wrong."

The words hang between them in the still air of the bedroom. John sees Bobby's face crack as soon as the words leave him. He watches a million emotions pass across his features in an instant. Regret, abject misery, fear. They've shifted, standing either side of the window. Outside, at the edge of the lawn, beyond the thicket of ferns that marks the boundary of the mansion's gardens, a wind rustles the tips of the pines. The moon watches over them, gaze interrupted by a gauzy cloud, sad light drifting waxy and pallid across the floor. Bobby's arms make a stuttering motion, halfway reaching for John before they can be halted. He watches Bobby's face, watches his jaw clench, watches his eyes well up.

"John… I didn't-"

"Get out."

His voice is final. There is no argument left in him. Bobby, ever incapable of listening, presses a half step forward.

"I said, get out."

Bobby stops, steps back, raises his hands.

"John-"

Outside in the darkness, a pine tree bursts into flames. Bobby's head turns, illuminated by the flickering orange light, dancing shadows across the planes of his face. He turns back to John, who hasn't moved, whose eyes are still staring. He swallows, and moves to leave. He doesn't look back.

John turns to watch his body as he stalks out, his eyes unseeing. Behind him, the tree continues to burn. There is the brief sound of wood splintering — a century of life up in smoke in in less than a minute. The tree slams into the ground with an unexpectedly soft sound, barely disturbing the grass around it. It burns itself to ash, which sits darkly against the grass, a shadow across the dark sea of grass, blades undulating in the wind.

John lies atop his mattress, fully clothed, and stares at the ceiling. 

He doesn't sleep.

* * *

Bobby clambers out of John's room on unsteady feet, stumbling up the hallway. Kyle's door is open, he glances at Bobby as he passes, eyeing him cautiously, mouth opening as if to speak. He probably heard everything. Bobby doesn't give him the chance, moving on before the words make it out of him. He's shaking. He can feel it in his hands as he climbs the stairs up to the second floor, up to Warren's room. His breathing is erratic. He's dizzy. He might be having a panic attack. He enters Warren's room without knocking, startling him. He jumps, his wings lurching involuntarily, almost knocking over a lamp on his desk. His face narrows at Bobby, annoyance rising in him. He prepares his usual barbs, ready to fire, but is pulled up short by the look on Bobby's face. There are tears in his eyes.

"Bobby? What's wrong, man?"

Bobby shakes his head.

"You got any cigarettes?"

Warren is taken aback, but doesn't argue. He rolls out a drawer, tosses a pack to Bobby, who fumbles his catch. Warren sees the quake in his arms, his fingers rattling the pack as he attempts to remove one of the smokes from the foil. He eventually manages it, bringing the filter to his lips. He speaks around it where it's held in his mouth. 

"Lighter?"

Warren reaches into the same drawer, hands it to Bobby this time. Warren watches him, arms folded, as he attempts to light it. He flicks it several times, each one sparking dully, the flame never catching. He grows increasingly frustrated, eventually raising his arm to dash the lighter to the floor.

"Hey, hey! Give it here, I'll do it," Warren injects, taking pity on him. He approaches Bobby, removes the lighter from his rigid grip, and flicks it once, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He puffs on it once, followed by a deep inhale. Warren pushes his shoulder towards the window with a sharp incline of his head.

"Over there, I don't want the place stinking."

Bobby nods, hanging half out over the windowsill, eyes on the charred remains of the pine tree. Warren sees him looking, voices a question he already knows the answer to.

"Did you and John fight?"

Bobby tenses at the name, a tendon in his neck pulling itself tight under his skin. He nods.

"Was that him, with the tree?"

"I think so."

Bobby's voice is clipped, his mind elsewhere. He's burning through the cigarette at a rate Warren hasn't ever seen before, in the few times he's seen Bobby smoke. He is a social smoker — which is to say he only does so when he's eight glasses deep on a night out, suddenly overtaken by the urge. Warren had been on and off with the smokes for years, a habit picked up in juvenile rebellion against his parents, one which had unfortunately stuck with him longer than he had intended.

Warren stands behind Bobby, close enough to touch although he doesn't. He speaks to him softly, attempting to coax him out of himself, out of whatever dark recess of his mind he has managed to trap himself within.

"Bobby, can you please talk to me, you're freaking me out."

"I fucked up, Warren. Badly."

"What did you do? I heard voices from downstairs, I figured it was you two. Did you fight?"

He nods, taking another shaky drag off of the cigarette. He breathes blue smoke out into the night, aiming it at the moon. 

"I… I said something I shouldn't have."

Warren bites his lip. He isn't good at these things and he knows it. Why would Bobby come to him, of all people?

"What did you say to him, Bobby?"

Bobby relates the argument to Warren in its entirety, trying not to cringe as Warren's eyes widen in shock at Bobby's accusation. The cigarette is gone by the time he's finished, let loose on the wind, carried gently down into the flowerbeds where Hank would undoubtedly uncover it the next morning, grumbling to Warren about taking care of his surroundings. Warren swallows, thinking carefully about what to say next. He swipes a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, and chews on a thumbnail.

"Bobby, that's not okay…"

"I know, Warren!" he replies, voice raising in pitch with every syllable, "I know."

There's a pause where Bobby kicks out at the wall underneath the window, rattling the pane. He hunches over, almost as if in pain, and his shoulder shudder. He's about to cry. Warren doesn't know if he can deal with that, so he gropes for the first available resource in his mind.

"Come here."

Bobby turns to him, eyes watery, lips curved into a pout that would be adorable if Warren were so inclined towards him. He gestures over to the desk, to the same compartment which houses his cigarettes, and pulls up a false bottom. He removes a plastic money bag from a bank, probably meant for coins, and holds it up between them.

"Go up to the roof. I'll be there in five. Don't tell anyone about this."

Warren isn't concerned about being busted for having weed in the house — on more than one occasion, Xavier has approached him to borrow some, when the phantom pain in his legs can no longer be held back by meditation and happy thoughts. Rather, he doesn't enjoy sharing.

This is certainly a special circumstance.

He and Bobby smoke on the roof for an hour, burning their way through two joints before Bobby sits back, laying himself out across the roof tiles, arms above his head like a sleeping child. His eyes are wide open, staring up at the stars. Warren tries to speak to him, but his voice is thick in his mouth, bone-dry. It feels like coughing up cotton wool, and so he doesn’t say anything. They make their way shakily down to Warren’s room, where Bobby collapses onto his bed. He falls asleep immediately, clothes on, legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, feet against the floor. Warren sighs, and wanders down to Kyle’s room. He stands in the doorway, swaying slightly, mind dull with a low hum. Kyle looks up at him, face illuminated by the soft glow of his laptop screen. Warren doesn’t know what time it is but he knows it’s late. 

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

Kyle’s eyes narrow at him, taking in the slow descent of his words through the air. Paranoia shoots up and down Warren’s spine, the sudden thought that Kyle knows he’s high. He swallows through his dry mouth, and focuses his vision, attempting to appear sober.

“Are you high?”

_ Damnit. _

He nods. He contemplates lying. He doesn’t have the energy, barely has enough to tell the truth.

“Bobby got himself in trouble. We smoked. I tried to calm him down.”

“I heard some of it. He looked pretty fucked up. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.”

A beat of silence. Kyle jerks his head at the expanse of mattress beside him. Warren steps over the threshold, shuts the door behind him. He removes his sweatshirt and trousers, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed as he struggles with his pant leg, caught around his foot. He eventually pulls it off with a flourish, toppling him over, onto Kyle’s outstretched legs. His eyes fall shut, sleep closing around him, before he’s awoken by a pinch to his neck.

“Get up here, you’re not sleeping like that.”

He groans, but moves himself — eyes still closed, to lie on his back beside Kyle. He falls asleep immediately, oblivious to Kyle shifting to lie within his arms. Kyle continues with his movie, letting the images wash over him as he tries not to concentrate too hard on Warren’s breathing.

* * *

They spend the first day after the argument avoiding one another. John emerges from his room at dawn. He hasn’t slept. He drags himself to the kitchen, where Scott sits with a bowl of cereal. He looks up as John enters, opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it when he sees his face, the hard set of his jaw. John eats across from him at the island, doesn’t speak. Bobby enters, stopping at the door as he notices John sitting there. John doesn’t look up, doesn’t turn around. Scott isn’t known for his perception, but he knows something is deeply wrong. Bobby moves in silence to the fridge, downs a bottle of orange juice in one. When he turns around, his eyes are bloodshot, darkly circled. He wanders out again, not a word between the three of them, leaving the stale stench of weed behind him in the air, trailing behind him as he sweats out last night’s high. Scott crinkles his nose, suddenly unable to stomach any more of his cereal. He rises to the sink, dumps the dregs of soggy, processed cornmeal and milk down the disposal, and rinses out his bowl. He watches out the window as he dries, eyes on the black remains of the tree where it lies in the grass. He inhales.

“Don’t.”

John’s voice is firm, unyielding. Scott grimaces at his reflection in the window, and remains silent. 

As he makes to leave, he stops behind John, his hand caught mid-movement to rest on his shoulder. He thinks better of it, and moves on.

* * *

It’s the second day. 

John had passed Bobby in the hallway on his way from one classroom to another. He had looked up as they moved by one another, which made a change from the day previous. Bobby had searched his eyes for something, anything. Anger, sadness — any fleeting emotion which might serve as an indication of where they were at. He had found nothing in John’s gaze, the fire in his eyes — that eternal cliche, made even worse given the circumstances — snuffed out. He had moved down the hall in silence, not even so much as a foul word thrown at Bobby’s feet like a warning. Bobby had called off duty for a couple of days, unwilling or unable to fulfill his duties to the kids while in such a state. Xavier had been understanding with him, nodding solemnly at Bobby’s request. He knows, of course he knows. Secrets are impossible to keep in the mansion, Bobby understands that.

Bobby sits, alone, out in the garden, between two rose bushes. He tears absently at the grass, shredding it between his fingers just for something to do. Hank will admonish him if he finds him. He hopes he will find him, if only for someone to speak to. He watches Piotr clear away the burned out tree, his chrome body streaked with black ash. He hears movement behind him, and for a brief moment his heart begins to thump, thinking it might be John, that they might be able to repair what Bobby had so easily broken that night. But the footfalls are too quick, too animated, to match John’s ever-measured gait. This person is walking on anger, practically stomping. They stand over him, their shadow looming tall, encompassing his own in the weak light of the evening.

“Hi, Ororo.”

The impact of her foot catches him off guard. He tumbles forward, rolling over himself with a surprised, strangled cry. He rolls onto his back, his face twisted in confusion, a flush of indignation rising up his neck. She stands over him, hands on her hips, face pulled tight as if to hold back the rage which bleeds through her voice. He has never been on the receiving end of her anger before, and it stuns him. She isn’t using her powers, and yet she seems to radiate an aura, the air around her electrified with the scent of ozone. 

“Who do you think you are?”

She takes a step forward as she speaks, closing in on him. He scrambles to his feet, eyeing her warily as if she might hit him again.

“What?”

“How dare you!”

She raises her palm, brings it down over him. He raises his arms in time, the impact sending him slightly off balance. She whacks him repeatedly, each hit sending a rippling pain shooting up and down his arm. He grabs for her wrist, holding it away from himself. She writhes against him, pulling herself free, stepping back, adjusting her jacket where it was rumpled by her assault.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“Why the fuck did you say that to him the other night? Are you dumb or just plain fucking stupid, Bobby?”

Bobby’s legs buckle under him. He wraps his arms around his knees, between which sits his head. He gulps breaths, shoulders heaving. Ororo watches his spine through the material of his shirt. She has only ever seen Bobby like this once before — the day he almost left the mansion, the team. Her anger dissipates as quickly as it arrives, a summer storm over in the blink of an eye. She kneels beside him, takes him into her arms, rests her chin on his head. He clutches at her, fingers clawed into the fabric of her jacket. He shudders out a breath into her neck, wet from the tears which he has finally let loose. She strokes his hair to soothe, rocking him gently as he regains enough control to speak.

“What am I gonna do, Ororo?”

His voice is tiny in his chest, a child’s voice. She doesn’t answer his question, but speaks regardless.

“He talked to me this morning. I pulled him aside after our mutant training class. We were doing drills together with the kids, making sure they can work together, as well as on their own. He was out of it, totally out of it. The students could tell. They tiptoed around him, as if he might explode on them at any moment, as if he might shatter into a million pieces if they said the wrong thing. I asked him what was up, and he told me. Bobby… how could you say that to him?”

Bobby howls against her, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his arm, leaving tiny, angry red crescents in his skin.

“I don’t know! I… I’ve been in a weird headspace for a while, with him. We just never see each other any more. It’s not like it used to be. I-I got worried that maybe it was me, that maybe he didn’t like me anymore… I thought maybe he had found someone else.”

Bobby recoils at the sound of the words coming out of his own mouth. He recoils at the hideous accusation of them. He recoils from himself, disgusted that he allowed himself to give voice to such ugly neurosis. Ororo kisses the crown of his head, tender now in the wake of her anger. She laces her fingers with his — hers long and pointed, his almost stubby — and squeezes him tightly in her arms.

“Please speak to him. He looked so down, Bobby. Please tell me you’ll fix this.”

“I don’t know that I can fix it, Ororo. What if this was it?”

Bobby’s voice is barely audible.

“He told me that he wanted to see you, that he wanted to talk. He said he just needed time to be apart from you, to get himself together. I don’t think he wants to end things, Bobby.”

She is lying to him. John hadn’t said anything even remotely close to that when she had spoken to him that afternoon. He had spoken to her of his exhaustion, of the emptiness that seemed to have hollowed out his insides, leaving him to walk half-asleep through his days.

She gives Bobby one last squeezing hug, dragging them both up to stand. They separate, gathering themselves together once again. Bobby swipes at his eyes, downcast towards the soil at his feet.

“Go see him tomorrow. Bring him something.”

He sniffles, cracking a fleeting smile. She leans into him, kisses his cheek, pats his shoulder once, and leaves him, wandering off in search of Piotr. He looks up, eyes catching on the rose bush to his left. He plucks one carefully, and heads off in the direction of the mansion, carefully removing the thorns as he walks.

* * *

That night, John opens the door to his room. There, on the bed, is a single red rose. There is a note — a tiny square of card — on which sit four words in messy, sloping handwriting.

_ I miss you, _

_ Bobby. _

* * *

It is the afternoon of the third day. 

Bobby hurries down the hallway to his room, passing by John’s on the way. The door is open — unusual, in itself. He stops, his eye catching on a glint of red in the window. The rose he picked yesterday sits in a drinking glass, half-filled with water. The sunlight isn’t particularly strong, but it sets the rose alight, a scarlet bloom throwing colour across the four walls of the small room. Bobby’s chest fills, an unnameable pressure trapping his breath within him. His eyes brim over, his lip quivering like the child he knows he is. Entranced as he is by the view of the flower illuminated, Bobby doesn’t hear the footsteps approach. He is startled at the touch on his arm, gentle fingertips on his wrist. He turns suddenly, John facing him. He takes an involuntary step back, eyes wide. John looks better than he has. Some of the colour has returned to his face, some of that fire sitting behind his pupils once again. Bobby tries to speak, but nothing comes out. John smiles at him, the barest twitch of the corners of his mouth, and Bobby feels his feet lift from the ground. John leans forward, lips to Bobby’s ear, and he could drown in the feeling of it.

“Come to my room tonight. I want to talk to you.”

It should frighten Bobby, the vague choice of words, but it doesn’t. There’s something in John’s tone, in his face, that soothes him. He wonders how he manages it, how he makes it so easy for Bobby. Bobby resolves to become that for John, to become a source of peace, somewhere he can rest himself when everything else becomes too much for him. 

Distantly, he is aware of the fact that a response is required.

He nods, and John nods in return. He leaves him standing there, one side of his face bathed in red light.

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the first thing John hears that night when he enters his room. Bobby is sitting on the edge of the bed, the near-perfect mirror of that first night. He is slightly taken aback by the bluntness of the words. He had, in truth, expected there to be some kind of lead up to the apology. He had wanted to make Bobby sweat a little, to needle him with words before ultimately accepting him once more into his arms and into his heart. Bobby has thrown him off balance with his earnestness. Typical. John moves around him, shucking his shoes, returning to sit with him on the edge of the bed. Bobby takes his hand, brings their fingers together.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

John nods.

“It hurt, Bobby. It hurt a lot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why did you say that?”

John is extending that olive branch once more, allowing Bobby to explain himself, to pull himself from the weeds into which he has entangled himself.

“I… I was scared. I felt like we were drifting, coming apart from one another. I thought maybe the spark was gone, or whatever you call it. I could feel you retreating into yourself, pulling away from me. I figured it was just tiredness — I know you work hard, and it takes a lot out of you, and I’m proud of you, I really am. But, last Thursday, we had a movie night. We watched something — I don’t even remember what it was, now — and it had something where someone got cheated on, and it sent me to a bad place, John.” He feels embarrassment colour his face, cheeks flushing hot, “It was dumb. I shouldn’t have let it hit me like that, but it did.”

John lays his cheek on Bobby’s shoulder, an arm around his waist. He turns, kisses him behind his ear, right where he knows it tickles him, and holds his lips there.

“It is dumb. You are dumb. But I understand.”   
“It’s not an excuse, and I don’t mean it to be one. I hurt you, and I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

“I do, forgive you.”

Bobby nudges him with his shoulder, because the alternative is crying.

“Thanks.”

“For my own part, I’m sorry that I pulled away from you like that.”   
“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Well, I’m going to anyway, so keep quiet.”

Bobby blushes harder, and nods.

“It’s been tough, getting used to the flow of things here. I’m tired all the time Bobby. But I feel good about the work, about what I’m doing here. Having said that,” he adds, working his fingertips under Bobby’s shirt, sending a shiver rocketing up and down his spine, “I forgot about you, in the interim. And that’s not fair. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” he replies, instantly.

“Lie down with me.”

Bobby pulls him into his arms, lays them flat across the bed on their sides, looking out into the serene darkness of the night. Wind troubles the tips of the pines once again, the moon obscured by a thick cover of clouds. Bobby speaks to his neck, his palm flat against John’s stomach.

“Please don’t ever leave me, Johnny.”   
John wants to make a joke of it, wants to tease him again about the nickname, to which he has steadily endeared himself over the months, despite his best efforts to the contrary. But he can hear the waver in Bobby’s voice.

“I’ll be here, Bobby. Always.”

They settle together into a comfortable silence. John falls asleep in Bobby’s arms, tucked into his chest. 

Bobby watches him until sleep claims him as well.

They shift once in the night, and are still.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, tell your friends!
> 
> If you want to know more about these characters and this world of mine, go ahead and read the other stories in the series!


End file.
